


Faith in a Faith that Falls

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Pastor James "Jim" Murphy finds two young boys set on spending the night in his church. He does what he can to help, knowing the odds are against them. Special thanks tofaithinfaith, whose warm, insightful messages inspire me to work harder, and whose user name inadvertantly inspired this little bit.
Series: We Three Kings [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Faith in a Faith that Falls

_ I do not believe in a fate that falls on people however they act;  
but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act.  
\--Gautama Siddhartha _

  
  
  
Jim had just passed the second to last pew when he heard it: the telltale shuffling inside the confessional. He sighed. During his twenty-plus years in the priesthood, he’d found homeless adults, runaway teens, confused elders, youngsters on a dare, and several highly unfortunate couples hiding inside the confessional stalls. A few visiting priests had suggested locking the doors, but Jim had refused: he’d helped many of those who sought shelter, and put what he hoped was the fear of God—pardon his pun—into the rest.  
  
The temperature had just dropped into the typical bite of late October, and he couldn’t fault someone for wanting a warm, safe place to spend the night. But he also couldn’t let a House of the Lord be used in lieu of a Motel 6.  
  
He sighed. All he’d wanted to do this evening was nurse a glass of scotch and watch _Law and Order_. There was no better way to wind down a triple-mass/pancake lunch/craft fair afternoon and potluck supper-Sunday. God got to kick up his heels on the seventh day but had damned his shepherds to miss every football game broadcast from the day they took the cloth.  
  
Jim tossed open the door faced four-feet eight-inches of pure attitude.  
  
“What do _you_ want?” the boy snapped. He had on a white t-shirt, flannel jacket, worn sneakers, and had both hands in fists, ready to fight.  
  
“I’m the Pastor here,” Jim explained, smiling reassuringly. “The church is closed for the night.” The curtains separating the priest’s side from the penitent’s rippled.  
  
“Fine. I’ll go.” He made no move forward.  
  
“Where are your parents? Can I call them?”  
  
“I _said_ , I’ll _go_.”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“What’s _yours_?”  
  
“You can call me Jim.”  
  
“You can call _me_ Jim too.”  
  
Jim honestly had to try not to laugh. If you plopped a Jeff Cap over the boy’s sandy-brown hair and put him in a vest and collared shirt, he would be perfect in the role of a 1920’s street-kid on the Hallmark channel.  
  
“Alright, Jim. Well, I’m going to need you to come with me. We can go to the Rectory and I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound.”  
  
“I _said_ , I’ll leave.”  
  
“Well then, let’s.”  
  
“You first.”  
  
The pastor sighed. _Law and Order, Heavenly Father. Once a week. I ask for so little._  
  
“Son, I can’t leave you here. And I don’t want to have to call someone to remove you, alright?”  
  
The curtain fluttered once more, and a small hand pulled back just enough that Jim could see two big brown eyes peering over the top of the prayer bench to study him. The kid glanced over his shoulder and instantly placed himself between the slice of open curtain and the Pastor’s view.  
  
“What’re you looking at?” Jim—the boy who was almost certainly _not_ ‘Jim’—glared.  
  
“Come on along now. I’ll get you taken care of.”  
  
“I don’t _need_ to be taken care of.”  
  
The curtain shifted, and they eyes reappeared, closer this time. Pastor Jim cleared his throat. “Well then,” he said, putting on his best “Old Testament” voice. “I have no choice. I must call the police.”  
  
“Don’t!”  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“We didn’t do anything!” another boy, smaller and darker, flung himself over the prayer bench and landed face-down, half on the kneeler, half on the floor.  
  
“Damnit, Sam! I told you to stay down and shutup!”  
  
“I’m not going to let you go to jail, Dean!”  
  
“God _damnit_!”  
  
“Stop it! We’re in a _Church_. He’s a _Priest_.”  
  
“Then bring on the lightning.”  
  
“Boys,” Jim said. The younger one had gotten to his feet and shifted close to the elder, who pulled away with a hiss when he bumped against his ribcage. From what he could tell, he’d guess they were about 11 and 6, though it was possible the younger’s big eyes and floppy curls made him look younger than he was. “You need to come with me now.”  
  
“Can’t we just go home?” the younger—Sam? Sam, he’d said—asked, big eyes damp and pleading. “We weren’t going to hurt anything, I promise. We just—”  
  
“Shut _up_ Sam!” the elder shouted.  
  
“That’s enough!” Jim barked, startling them both. “I’ll hear you out. But not here. Come back with me to the Rectory.”  
  
“What’s that?” Sam asked. Dean half-growled in aggravation, as if he had no idea where the kid could have gotten his refusal to obey orders.  
  
“The home where any resident priests live, and any visiting ones stay.” Jim smiled and softened his tone. “There’s no one there but me right now, so no one else will have to know you were here.”  
  
“That’s how 86% of all slasher movies start,” Dean scoffed. Sam’s eyes grew wide again.  
  
“He’s a priest,” he whispered.  
  
“Perfect cover,” Dean hissed back. “He’s got a graveyard and everything.” Sam gasped and clutched Dean’s arm, causing the elder boy to wince once more.  
  
“Son, you need to cut down on your TV time. C’mon. You must be hungry. Aren’t you?” Sam glanced up at his brother. Dean’s gaze softened slightly at the promise of food, and he dropped a hand to Sam’s shoulder. “There was a potluck supper. I’ve got an entire refrigerator full of leftovers.”  
  
“Dean didn’t have dinner,” Sam told him.  
  
“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut one day, Sammy.”  
  
“Well I’ve got a whole bunch of things to fix that,” Jim said, “and three types of pie for afterwards.”  
  
Sam beamed and tugged on his brother’s sleeve. “Pie’s your favorite!”  
  
“Sam, I swear to God—”  
  
“We’ll go. Are there a lot of stairs? Dean’s having a hard time with stairs. Do you have any Advil? We ran out. Usually the heat pad helps, too, if you have one. Dean’s favorite pie is apple or blueberry or cherry or blackberry or key-lime or pumpkin but he doesn’t like lemon meringue. Do you have lemon meringue?”  
  
Dean looked up at Jim, suddenly much older than his ten some years. “Can you take him and put _me_ in jail, please?”  
  
And Jim finally let himself laugh.

***

  
They were brothers. Sam was seven and a half. Dean would be twelve in January. Sam got straight As on his last report card but Dean got a C in English because he refused to read _My Brother Sam is Dead_ or take the test and or do the book report, Sam explained.  
  
“He said his brother’s name is Sam and he’s not dead and he doesn’t really want to think about me being dead so he shouldn’t have to read a book about it. The teacher told him to pretend ‘Sam’ said ‘Fred,’ but Dean still wouldn’t do it. He said it was morbid and she was sad and he had to stay after school.”  
  
“I said she was a _sadist_ not ‘sad,’” Dean grumbled between bites of stuffed shells with meat sauce. “And I think about killing you once a day, so don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
Sam’s face instantly fell, and his lower lip slid out in a little pout. Dean winked at him, offering a warm grin. “Tell Jim about your test.”  
  
“Math?” Sam sniffed.  
  
“No, stupid. Your _special_ test.”  
  
“Oh! They had me go into a room with the guidance counselor all by myself and solve puzzles to see if I was smart.”  
  
“They know you’re smart, dummy. That’s why they had you do the test. They wanted to see if you were _gifted_.”  
  
“They wanted to see if I was _gifted_ ,” Sam said proudly.  
  
“And? Are you?” Jim asked, serving Dean a fifth stuffed shell. Sam had finished his chicken pot pie about ten minutes earlier, but Dean showed no sign of slowing down.  
  
“I don’t know. The puzzles weren’t that hard, but I was nervous. It was weird to do a test with someone sitting there staring at you. But Dean helped me practice.”  
  
Dean slurped up the last bit of sauce and sighed, leaning back with a wince. Sam picked up on it instantly and scooted his chair closer to his brother’s until they were smack against each other’s. “Do you have Advil? Dean likes Advil best.”  
  
“I do,” Jim said. “Dean, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at your side.”  
  
Dean glared. “I’m not stupid. It’ll take more than pasta to get my shirt off.”  
  
“You flatter yourself. I’ve got plenty of altar boys if I wanted them.” Jim was pleased when Dean cracked a grin. Sam was busy rubbing his brother’s arm and leaning against his shoulder, like a hug could make it all better. “Hold on. I’ve got a first aid kit under the sink. I’ll fix up your side, and then we’ll have pie. Sam? You like pie too?”  
  
“I’m full.”  
  
“He’ll have whatever I have,” Dean murmured, dropping a hand to pet his brother’s dark curls. Jim nodded and moved off to retrieve the first aid kit. Dean was talking softly to Sam when he returned, but the younger boy still hid his obviously wet face against his brother’s arm when Jim sat down. “So,” Dean said, hand still moving steadily against Sam’s hair, “you’re a Priest _and_ a Doctor?”  
  
“I was a medic in Vietnam. Learned the ropes.”  
  
“Is it true they let just anyone stitch you up out there?”  
  
“No,” Jim grinned, opened the kit, and gingerly lifted Dean’s shirt. When the boy gasped and gritted his teeth, Sam’s face reappeared, and he squeezed his brother’s arm and said “it’s okay, Dean, you’ll be okay. It’ll be better soon.”  
  
Jim used a clothespin to hold the shirt in place and surveyed Dean’s hideously bruised side. He’d guess a rib or two was cracked, if not broken, and sat back, eyes steadily meeting the boy who’d clearly lost all the ‘boy’ he’d ever had far, far too young.  
  
“How’d this happen?” he asked.  
  
“I fell,” Dean said steadily.  
  
“He was skateboarding,” Sam attested, but his voice shook and he sniffed, cheek pressed to Dean’s tee.  
  
“You fall off your skateboard a lot?”  
  
“I like to try jumps.”  
  
“Your parents see this yet?”  
  
“Dad did. He took my skateboard away.”  
  
Sam nodded. “No skateboard for a week.”  
  
“Did he take you to the doctor?”  
  
Dean straightened up. “He was in Vietnam too, you know. He knows what’s battle-worthy.”  
  
“Your Mom?”  
  
“She died,” Sam supplied.  
  
“Can I call your Dad and let him know you’re safe?”  
  
“He’s sick.”  
  
“So leave him alone,” Dean snapped.  
  
“Sam,” Jim said, “would you mind going into the kitchen and getting three plates of cherry pie? The pie’s on the bottom shelf. I set the plates and a server out on the counter.”  
  
Sam glared and sat up straight. “I’m not leaving Dean.”  
  
“It’s okay, Sammy.”  
  
“I’m not a baby.”  
  
“I know, you’re not, Sam. But you know I love pie. Can you get us some? Please?”  
  
“Not until your ribs are better.”  
  
“That’ll be weeks. You want me to go _weeks_ without pie? You know how bad that can get.”  
  
“Our Dad’s not bad,” Sam declared. Dean’s face fell.  
  
“Sammy, _please_ shutup. I’ll give you _anything_ to get you to shutup.”  
  
“He took us for ice cream last weekend,” Sam continued.  
  
“He just has bad nights," Dean explained. "Especially when it gets dark earlier.”  
  
“They did say we can’t come back until next year.”  
  
“That was _your_ fault, dummy.” Dean gasped as Jim pushed the first bit of tape into his side. Jim laid a gentle, reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder as he affixed the tape in place. Sam pulled Dean’s good arm against his own chest and pushed himself closer, causing his elder brother to squirm and mumble a curse, but Jim noticed Dean’s tense muscles loosened slightly.  
  
“What happened that you can't go get ice cream for a year?” he asked, hoping to distract them as he prodded a second rib. He’d given up trying to question at Dean: he wouldn’t get an honest answer in front of Sam, and he wouldn’t get Sam to leave as long he thought his brother might get in trouble if he did. There’d be a better time. There always was.  
  
“Sammy got lost in the hedge maze,” Dean grumbled, fisting his good hand into his brother’s sweater and bracing himself as Jim continued his ministrations.  
  
“I don’t like the scarecrows,” Sam explained.  
  
“I _told_ you to wait for me. I would have taken you through.”  
  
“It got bigger than last year.”  
  
Dean gasped as Jim prodded a third rib, and said something Jim was fairly certain would have gotten him soap-in-the-mouth as a kid, but he let it go. “So, Sam, you got lost?” he prompted.  
  
“Started crying like a baby,” Dean muttered.  
  
“I did not!”  
  
“Did too.”  
  
“Did you go help him, Dean?” Jim asked.  
  
“I was _trying_ to. But Dad thought I was taking too long.” He grinned, and even Sam brightened.  
  
“He started kicking down the walls,” the younger boy said.  
  
“Literally. Tearing down whole sections of their stupid little corn stuff. Hay and supports and everything. It was like he was back in ‘Nam.”  
  
“All the kids started screaming.”  
  
“It was awesome. He was like swamp thing, but covered in hay and shit.” Dean snorted to himself in amusement. “He’s tearing through the damn maze and all ‘I’m coming, Sammy, I’m coming!’ and little kids are screaming and all these women start running around yelling. I laughed so hard I almost puked.”  
  
“Then he punched one of the scarecrows. It fell through the dead end and we got out, but we’re not allowed back for a year.”  
  
“Dad _was_ going to let us watch _Pumpkinhead_ , but after that he said it was too scary, so we got stuck watching _The Great Charlie Brown Pumpkin_ again.”  
  
“I like Linus,” Sam pouted.  
  
“Of course you do, Lucy.”  
  
“Dad said _you_ were pigpen.”  
  
“Damn straight. He’s badass.” Dean hissed once more. “Seriously, doc, stick to Our Fathers.”  
  
“All done,” Jim said, squeezing his arm reassuringly and lowering the shirt.  
  
“All done,” Sam echoed, grinning up at his big brother and continuing to cuddle his arm. “You’ll feel better soon.”  
  
“Sure I will. I’m never down long,” he smiled at his brother. “You want to get me that pie now?”  
  
“Why can’t Jim do it?”  
  
“Don’t be rude, Sammy. We’re guests. It would be nice to serve him dessert, don’t you think?”  
  
Sam offered his best glare, which was so cute Jim had to cover his mouth to hide his grin. “I may be small, but I can kick you in the shins,” he said.  
  
“Sammy, _don’t be rude_. _Go_. Pie. Don’t I deserve pie?”  
  
Sam nodded, slowly disentangled himself from his brother, gave another glare at Jim for good measure, and raced off toward the kitchen. Dean turned back to the pastor, all business.  
  
“Look, we weren’t doing anything. We just needed a place for the night.”  
  
“Your Father did this?”  
  
“I told you. He has bad nights.”  
  
“This isn’t the first time?”  
  
Dean glanced toward the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “He was going to go after Sam.”  
  
“You know this?”  
  
“He’s got a pattern. He gets real quiet, sleeps a lot. Then starts pacing. Then he drinks. Then he yells. Usually he’ll just leave it at that, or punch the wall a few times or something. Once and awhile...” he glanced at his side and shrugged. “He usually passes out again after that. But this time...”  
  
“He started yelling at Sam.”  
  
“Sammy doesn’t get it. I don’t _want_ him to.” He said, that attitude of pure defiance radiating from his small form.  
  
“Man to man?” Jim asked seriously. “You know I need to tell someone about this.”  
  
“No. They’ll split us up. Like I said, my Dad’s not bad. He just—”  
  
“Dean, you’re in danger.”  
  
“No we’re not.”  
  
“You boys need help. And so does your Dad.”  
  
“We needed one night out of the house.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“He doesn’t go after Sam. Not usually. Most of the time, Sam’s in bed before it even gets bad.”  
  
“What about _you_?”  
  
“What _about_ me?”  
  
“Dean, you have to know that you deserve more than this. If nothing else, so Sam doesn’t have to worry about you.”  
  
Dean opened his mouth, then quickly smiled. Sam had two plates in hand and was walking slowly and carefully. The slices were more than a little uneven and runny, and Dean’s was coated with so much whipped cream it was barely visible, but they both smiled and thanked him.  
  
“Where’s yours?” Dean asked.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Sam said, leaned back against his brother’s good side and claimed his arm once more.  
  
By the time they’d finished, his eyes had drooped shut and his head was heavy, and Dean looked exhausted himself. Jim found a few bags of clothing left from a drive and dug out shirts and pajama bottoms that fit them both, then lead them to a first floor bedroom, mindful of the difficulty Dean’s sore ribs presented on the stairs. Sam refused to go to bed without brushing his teeth, so Jim found extra toothbrushes, and returned to find Sam gently coaxing his elder brother’s shirt off of him, moving with the same extraordinary care and concentration he’d used to carry the pie plates. Dean didn’t even bother trying to change his pants, and dry-swallowed the Advil Jim handed him. Dean made Sam get in on the side farthest from the door, then lay still and stiff on his back while his brother wriggled as close as he could without accidently bumping his sore ribs.  
  
“Okay now. We’ll talk more in the morning, alright?” Jim asked. He was on his way toward the door when Sam asked:  
  
“Will you say a prayer with us?”  
  
Dean snorted. “Seriously, Sam?”  
  
“We should. We’re safe and we had dinner all because of God. We should thank Him.”  
  
“We had dinner because a bunch of housewives feed up the Priest thinking it’ll get them on the fast-track to Jesus.”  
  
“Jim, will you?”  
  
“Of course, Sam.” He crossed the room and sat on the foot of Sam’s side of the bed. The younger boy sat up and clasped his hands together tightly under his chin, like a cartoon version of a child praying at Sunday school. “How do you usually pray?”  
  
“I’ve never prayed before.”  
  
“Never?”  
  
“Sue me,” Dean grumbled. “It’s not my thing.”  
  
“I don’t know any prayers,” Sam continued. “Will you teach me one?”  
  
“Geek,” Dean moaned, tossing an arm over his eyes.  
  
“I will,” Jim smiled at Sam. “This one’s real short and easy, okay? It’s called the Serenity Prayer.”  
  


***

  
Jim finally had his glass of scotch. Less than a third the size of his usual, but he needed to be clear headed with two kids in the house. The rectory still had a rotary phone, meaning he messed up who he was calling no less than three times a week, but his fingers could dial this number in their sleep.  
  
“Caleb McManus.”  
  
“Caleb, Jim Murphy.”  
  
Caleb snorted. “Fifteen minutes. That’s a new record for me. I totally called that the Nanny and the husband were doing it and she killed the wife in a jealous rage. Remember how the coroner said the strangulation was failed and the head wound was a slow bleed? A woman did it, not a man. I should’ve gone to law school.”  
  
_Law and Order, Heavenly Father. Once a week. Your humble servant asks so little._  
  
“I’m afraid I’m not calling because the end shocked me. Not this time.”  
  
“Well, then, why—no. No, Jim, no way. I told you—”  
  
“Caleb, they’re—”  
  
“Not listening—da dum, da, da da da, da! Hear that? Jack McCoy is NOT LISTENING!”  
  
“They’re only seven and eleven. Sam and Dean—”  
  
“Nope, not caring, not invested—”  
  
“Dean loves pie and Sam just got tested for the gifted program. Dean wouldn’t read ‘My Brother Sam is Dead’ because he said it was morbid.”  
  
“Godamnit, Jim, why do you do this to me? I worked the whole weekend!”  
  
“Don’t try that with a Priest, especially on a Sunday.”  
  
“You sonofabitch. _Fine_. What home are they in, and why do you want it reviewed?”  
  
“They’re not in state care.”  
  
“They’re not.”  
  
“No. Not yet.”  
  
“ _Then_?”  
  
Jim threw back a mouthful of Scotch. “Caleb. They just needed a night—”  
  
“No no no no no! No fuckin’ _way_ am I hearing this again!”  
  
“Dean hadn’t even eaten—”  
  
“Goddamn you, Jim! You hear me? You got an all-access pass to The Big Man, right? Well, you tell Him Caleb McManus wants you to go to hell.”  
  
“Just this one time—”  
  
“Forget it! Not after your last Hooker with a Heart of Gold made off with her two year-old and the week’s collection basket! That kid is still out there, you made the papers, and I could have lost my job at best and gone to jail at worst. You may fear standing before the Lord, but I fear standing before a six foot, four-hundred pound hulk who likes his bitches to wear rouge.”  
  
“Caleb, don’t be filthy.”  
  
“Jim, don’t be _stupid_. Forget it. I’m on my way. Now I’m gonna have to put on pants. You know I hate wearing pants after 10:30.”  
  
“Unfortunately, yes.” Jim took another quick drink. “Caleb, please. This is your home number. They don’t have to know.”  
  
“They hell they don’t. Do you know what CPS stands for? Caleb Provokes Shit. That’s right—that’s the running office joke.”  
  
“Just, _one day_. See if you can’t find an Aunt, an Uncle, Grandparent, neighbor—they’re so young, Caleb, there’s got to be _someone_ they know who will take them in until you guys can suss out what’s going on. Please, they really can’t be separated. You have no idea—”  
  
“ _I_ have no idea?” Caleb roared. “Look, I get it. You want to treat your little personal corner of heaven like a pound puppy paradise, fine. But I’m out there in the trenches, pal. The projects, the trailer-homes, the kids sleeping next to the cat litter boxes with lice and fleas and fuckin’ _worms_ , Jim.”  
  
“Caleb—”  
  
“So yeah, I get that you can be all self-righteous in wanting me to work to get your pets placed in perfect homes, but my main goal is to get kids somewhere where there’s food and school and clean clothes and showers and a hug or two, alright? Whatever those kids’ situation is, even if they have to split up, that’s a better deal than they’re getting now.”  
  
“Just _one day_ , _please_. I’ll call around for relatives. You see if there’s a family or a home that will take them.”  
  
“Seven and twelve?”  
  
“Eleven.”  
  
“When is he twelve?”  
  
“January.”  
  
“Forget it.”  
  
“Caleb—”  
  
“No way is a home going to take them together. Kids and pre-teens are always separated. And as for a family, that’s not my call. That’s up to whoever applies.”  
  
“We both know the odds of placing a pre-teen with anyone, let alone two kids at the same time.”  
  
“Yeah, well. The system’s overloaded, and foster parents want young and cute and cuddly. It sucks, but it beats having your ass kicked for eighteen years.”  
  
“When they went to sleep tonight, Sam asked me to teach him a prayer. He’d never learned to pray.”  
  
“Well, they can teach him.”  
  
“Dean snuck them out so there Dad wouldn’t hit Sam.”  
  
“Now no one has to hit either of them.”  
  
“When I taped up Dean’s ribs, Sam curled up next to him and told him everything would be fine, and Dean let Sam sleep on his arm right down the hall.”  
  
“God— _damn_ you!” Caleb roared. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve asked you for one thing—let me do my Goddamn job.”  
  
“I _am_. Caleb, _please_.”  
  
He heard the sound of slamming and then a gruff “what are their names?”  
  
“Sam and Dean.”  
  
“Sam and Dean _what_?”  
  
“They wouldn’t say.”  
  
“They wouldn’t—oh, fuck you, Jim.”  
  
“Sam’s seven and a half. Dean’s eleven, will be twelve in January. Their Dad’s on his own—mother died.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s a ton to go on.”  
  
“I know you can do it, Caleb.”  
  
“Don’t even try to fuckin’ flatter me. You’re ready to risk my career, my family.”  
  
“Just a day. I promise.”  
  
“You promise _what_?”  
  
“I promise I won’t fight you when you take them in. I just want to _try_.”  
  
“You know what? Uncle Sam doesn’t give points for ‘trying.’ You screw up a kid’s life? You sit out the next fifteen years of _your_ kid’s lives.”  
  
“Give me until noon.”  
  
“Noon.”  
  
“Noon. You take lunch then. You start at 7:30. I’ll work from here, you work from there. If we can’t find anyone—”  
  
“This is it, Jim. I mean it. After this, you lose this number. Even if Jack McCoy shocks you.”  
  
Caleb slammed down the line on the other end. Jim swallowed the rest of his glass in a dizzying gulp and headed for another when he heard the tell-tale creak of the old wood floor. He turned to see Sam in the doorway, t-shirt oversized, pants a little too short above his ankles, all big eyes and that worried lower lip. Smart, sweet, flat-out adorable—he’d be snatched up by a happy family in an instant. But Dean was a guardian, a warrior, and even though his rough exterior clearly sheltered a hurt and sensitive little boy, he was hardly going to submit to being a charming house-guest. Not when he didn’t have a pulse on his brother’s well-being.  
  
“Sam, are you alright?”  
  
“You were loud.”  
  
“I’m sorry. I had to make a phone call.”  
  
“Did you talk to our Dad?”  
  
“No, son. I imagine he’s tired.”  
  
“He’s always tired after he hits Dean.” Sam sounded angry for the first time that night. Jim wished he could have a little more whiskey, but Sam deserved a better example.  
  
“You want a glass of milk?”  
  
Sam nodded. Jim got a clean glass out of the cabinet and poured milk out for both of them, the held up his glass in a little “cheers” motion that made the boy giggle as he clinked and took a sip. “Dean sleeping?” Jim inquired.  
  
“He was up most of last night too. Dad went out and came home sick.”  
  
“Dean takes care of your Dad too, huh?”  
  
“Dean takes care of everything,” Sam gushed, beaming with hero-worship.  
  
“He loves you very much.”  
  
“He says most kids are dumb and annoying, but that's not me. I mean...he says I’m dumb and annoying, but not little-kid dumb and annoying.”  
  
Jim chuckled. “He’s very proud of how smart you are.”  
  
“Dean’s smart too. He doesn’t think he is, but I _know_ he is. He fixes all sorts of stuff around the house, and he reads a lot too. He just doesn’t like school. He doesn’t like it when grown-ups talk to him like a kid.”  
  
“I bet. He’s very mature for his age.”  
  
“He got tested for being gifted too. That’s why he knew how to help me practice. But he wouldn’t finish the test because he said it was way too weird to have someone stare at him the whole time. But he sat and stared at _me_ while I did my homework, for a whole week, so I’d get used to it.”  
  
Jim’s stomach began to roll: and it wasn’t from the alcohol. It was from looking at this small boy who obviously adored his big brother, and thinking of that big brother who’d obviously sacrifice anything to protect and nurture his little brother, and know that this may very well be the last night they could spend together, for _years_. Of course Caleb was right—neither one of these boys deserved to grow up in an environment where they’d be beaten and terrorized. And it wasn’t Caleb or anyone else’s fault that there were so many children needing a home, and so few families financially and emotionally equipped to take-in those children. So many cared—Caleb was a testimony to that. He’d worked or wing-maned on hundreds of cases, and had failed to develop the thick skin that allowed him to toss aside little details like Dean liking pie or Sam bragging about his report card. The more CPS agents Jim met, the more he realized that, as tough and professional as they could be on the outside, there was no child that didn’t have the power to slam their heart-strings.  
  
And yes: Jim knew he had used it, to his advantage, on more than one occasion. And Caleb was right: he wasn’t being fair. Because it was Caleb and countless others who had to process paperwork, and go to court, and make follow-up visits and arrange counseling sessions and report in to the state and justify budgets. Jim just presented those who he found and pleaded for mercy. He’d grown up believing everyone deserved mercy.  
  
“I’ve got something to give you,” he said—fueled by guilt, the Holy Spirit, the ghost of his own brother, he’d never know. But he swiftly removed the leather thong from around his neck and placed the small, precious amulet on the table between himself and the boy.  
  
“It’s got horns,” Sam frowned.  
  
“They symbolize a conch shell—a way of warding off evil.”  
  
“It doesn’t look like Jesus.”  
  
“It’s not Jesus. It’s an eastern version of God. Different than what we're used to seeing.”  
  
“Where’d you get it?”  
  
“My brother. He was a medic too. We both went to Vietnam. I had to, but he wanted to. To help.”  
  
“You have a brother?”  
  
“I do. An older brother.”  
  
“Like Dean?”  
  
“He had less...attitude than Dean.” Sam giggled. “But when I got drafted, he said he’d go too. To keep an eye on me. We both had a lot of first-aid and CPR training, because our Dad was a doctor, and he insisted we know how to help people at all times. He didn’t want us both to go, but he said he understood why we wanted to.”  
  
“So your brother bought it?”  
  
“No. My brother was out in the field with a group of soldiers, and they came upon a village that had been destroyed by the enemy. And there was a woman crying and holding her daughter, who was hurt very, very badly. But she wasn’t dead. So my brother treated the daughter and then carried her all the way back to base, which was a long, long, way, and got her the best treatment there was. And when the girl was ready to leave, her mother gave this to him.” He pushed it closer to Sam, letting the boy pick it up, weigh it, turn it over. “It’s very valuable, very rare. An interpreter explained to him that she wanted him to have it because, in her culture, it’s a sign that says, no matter what, we’re all one. We’re all connected, no matter how different or far away we are.” Sam’s eyes were wide and serious. “And you know what’s _really_ special?” Jim said, smiling. “It can only be given to someone you have total faith in. It can only be given as a sign that says ‘I know you’re made of God, and I’m made of God, and one day, we’re going to see each other again.”  
  
Sam cradled the amulet even closer, stroking softly over its face. “So it’s made of God too.”  
  
“You could say that.”  
  
“But your brother didn’t keep it?”  
  
“He gave it to me when I was very sick. I was shot, you see. Right through the ribs.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I lost a lot of blood. While I was very weak, he had to go on a mission. So he gave it to me, and said I had to live until he could get back. After that, we passed it back and forth. The entire time we were over there.”  
  
“Do you still?”  
  
“In our own way.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Jim dropped his voice to its warmest, softest register. “One day, my brother went out on a mission, but he didn’t make it back. Not alive.”  
  
Sam dropped the charm like it was red-hot. “Your brother’s _dead_?” he gasped.  
  
“It was quick. Painless, they said.”  
  
“But...it didn’t work.” Sam’s voice broke, and his big eyes filled. “He said he’d come back and he didn’t.”  
  
“No, he said he believed, no matter what, he’d see me again. And I believe in him.”  
  
“But he _died_.”  
  
“But I have faith I’ll see him again. I’ll have faith he’ll find me and I’ll find him. I have faith we’re connected, because we’re all of God and made of God. You see?”  
  
Sam’s expression shifted from heartbreak to a slow resolve. He reached out and hesitantly touched the small face once more. “So...when you die, you’ll find each other.”  
  
“I know we will. So now I want you to have it.”  
  
“No. It’s yours.”  
  
“It’s yours now.”  
  
“But...you said it’s special. It can—”  
  
“Only be given in a moment of faith. When I believe and want you to believe. I believe in you, Sam. Do you?” Sam hesitated, then nodded, gravely. “So, when you pass it on, if you choose to, it has to go to someone as a sign of absolute faith. A sign that you trust, no matter what the barriers, that you’ll find your way back to one another. You got it? You’ll take care of it for me?”  
  
“I will,” Sam vowed, and carefully hung it around his own neck, adjusting it so it nestled comfortably near his heart.  
  
Tomorrow, Jim would wake before five and begin to phone everyone he knew to discover if they could tell whose boys these two were. Tomorrow, Caleb would arrive at the state office and begin to make his own inquiries. Tomorrow, the very real possibility would rise that these two 'strays,' as Caleb crassly put it, would be separated for years, if not their lives.  
  
But tonight, Jim had two little boys to watch over. One with faith. One with none. But with a bond, and now a trinket, that could endure it all: that, at least, he had absolute faith in. And long ago, he'd realized that one tiny flicker of his own faith could encompass the universe when combined with the flickers of everyone else's, no matter how far away they were, or how many years departed.


End file.
